Spots of Time
by Genevievey
Summary: A little series of (vaguely-chronological) drabbles & oneshots: glimpses into a future for Anthony & Edith.
1. Commonplace

**A/N: **_These are just a few drabbles & oneshots that I've been posting on Tumblr - thought I may as well collect them together here. Thus far they're in chronological order - but it's not very likely to stay that way! I hope you enjoy._

* * *

_**COMMONPLACE**_

People say it every day – she knows that. Particularly if those people are engaged.

But does that rob it of some potency, in other people's eyes?

Not in hers.

By her reckoning, if the phrase were repeated every single day, it ought still to come from somewhere real and deep.

Every time Edith says, "I love you," something quavers.

Something inside that has been hurt too often before.

Every time Edith says, "I love you," she has to wonder.

Are his replies as achingly sincere as hers?

Or is it for him a matter of habit, natural as responding to

"How do you do?"

After all, he's done all this before.


	2. Weakness

_**WEAKNESS**_

He tries. He really does. But she is his weakness.

(One of them).

She smiles, and he is tongue-tied.

She touches his knee; and harsh realities fly with the breeze in her hair.

And if he did not love her so, it would be more possible to act in her best interests. If.

As it is, he struggles vainly. His lips refuse to form the words – just one more paralysis.

If he could, he would ask, "Edith, are you _sure_?"


	3. Patched

_**PATCHED**_

In some ways, the war would never leave them. Whether in progress or in paralysis, it left its mark.

_It's not just my arm_, he had once tried to insist. And he had been telling the truth. It was not a matter of one paralysed limb – it was a matter of dark nights, and haunting echoes, and things that could not be spoken, even to her. And guilt, to think that he was one of the _least_ damaged.

It had to come out, every now and then.

In this case, it was the tea things. He had wanted to pass her a tea cup – but the rug had caught his foot, and he did not have another hand to catch the saucer. The shock jolted through him like gunfire – and then came the hot rush of retaliation.

"Damn! Damn!"

Immediately, pragmatically, she bent to gather the pieces. The servants need not see his little misstep.

"Don't worry," she said. "I _think_ we'll afford a replacement."

He wanted to return the smile – he could not.

"For what _can_ be replaced…"

For a moment, he thought she didn't have a reply. A brief moment.

"You know, the Japanese repair their pottery with gold – they believe it's all the more beautiful for having been broken."

"I don't _want_ to be broken," he snapped – at sympathy, at his arm, at himself, at blasted fools – sounding at once like an angry man and a helpless child.  
"For my sake, and for _yours_."

Edith grimaced, still a little stung – but she understood. Understood that sometimes clever philosophy is of little consolation. So she simply took his hand.

"I know," she said, gently - with artless honesty. "I know."

Separately, and together, they stared at the floor.

Then Anthony silently disentangled his hand from hers…raised it to her cheek. He tucked a curl back behind her ear with painstaking care; as though simply taking in the sight of her required every bit of his attention.

His expression had calmed - closed, somehow. There was nothing to be done, nothing much to be said.

They both knew, already, that she was the gold that bound him back together.

And it _was_ all beautiful - in a broken way. Beautiful.


	4. Backward-Glancing

_**BACKWARD-GLANCING**_

It was a quiet afternoon; outside the sun fell in long shadows across the lawn, making everything still and lazy. Even Edith's attempt at productivity had been slowed to a leisurely pace.

Anthony had suggested she might want to tidy up the office – make a space for herself, her own desk to pursue her writing. It was a lovely thought, and she had been eager.

However, the actual 'tidying' was rendered difficult by the fact that - for one thing - all of Anthony's things were already very tidy, and already in just the place they ought to be. She felt rather as though she were encroaching on his space.

But, more than that, every little object was so fascinating – so telling about _him_. She couldn't just move aside a book or a paperweight or an ornamental letter-opener; not without staring at it, feeling its weight in her hand, wondering where it fitted into Anthony Strallan's life. Pieces of him.

Edith sighed, pausing to gaze out the window at the idyllic summer evening – all green and gold, and warmth that worked its way inside through the sash-windows – and then looked back down at the desk that would be hers. She had just moved aside an old pencil-tin – which looked as though it had seen a good few decades, and rattled as though it might contain old badges or coins – and paused to find something underneath it.

A sun-faded, slightly battered square of card. A photograph.

It showed a young man, on the bank of a river; sunlight glistening on his skin and the water behind him.

Edith's eyes widened.

She found herself glancing about almost guiltily – though she knew full-well she was the only one in the room. Reassured that her indulgence would go unobserved, Edith leant against the mahogany desk, and examined the photograph.

'Cambridge, 1890' was printed along the edge; though she might've guessed by the background, and the distinctive rowing-costume.  
Which was, it had to be said, _particularly_ flattering.

_He was __beautiful__…_

_Is__ beautiful_, she amended – but couldn't help admiring the enticing view. She bit her lip. Smooth skin, lean muscle…and the same eyes. Her Anthony.

Gosh, but she was lucky. She could never ask for anything but what she'd been given.  
(Although, she really didn't mind the glimpse…)

Looking just a little flushed, Edith tucked the photograph away inside her pocket – and, smiling around the space that was his _and _hers, abandoned all intention of a productive afternoon. Tidying could wait, after all.

When she found him, he was strolling in the garden, having a word with the gardener, Mr. Davies. He'd rolled his sleeves up in the heat, and sun was shining on his hair – and it was all too easy to see the Cambridge student in the mild gentleman. He was beautiful.

And he was so typically _amiable_ that it was a good several minutes before Mr. Davies went on his way. When he did, and they were at last alone, Anthony found himself being tugged behind an oak.

"Well," the gentleman breathed, when his lips were his own again, "I have no idea what I _did_, but you're very welcome!"  
Edith merely smiled. "You're wonderful, is all."  
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and the two of them made their way back to the house.

"Say," mused Lady Strallan, "do you think we might take a stroll to the creek, tomorrow?"


	5. French, and How to Curtsy

_**FRENCH, AND HOW TO CURTSY**_

Edith had never been what either of her sisters were. They had shared some things, certain traits – but she always seemed to occupy an awkward middle-distance.

On matters of deportment, for instance. Mary had thought of little else since they were twelve – eager as she was to assume the title of Countess – while Sybil, by contrast, had despaired more than once that "no one ever learned anything from a governess, except French and how to curtsey".

And Edith? Typically, she had stood somewhere in between.

On one hand, such things didn't seem enough – nearly enough – to give a person purpose: the constant, extravagant flurry of hair to be arranged, dresses to be fitted, new gloves for spring, cutlery to handle delicately, guests to charm… Sometimes it seemed that Sybil had a point. Wasn't it all ridiculous?

And yet…Edith also understood that, humans being social creatures, they needed those rituals of etiquette; those traditions that helped to form a society. And she understood all too keenly that, if she _were_ ever to have a life of her own – the kind of life she so longed for – she would have to master these outwardly-frivolous social practises. They were all she had to work with.

So she did.

And years later, Edith looked back on it all, and smiled. She had worked the most beautiful compromise; and as it turned out, the time she had spent on French and deportment had reaped just as many benefits as had her reading and study of politics.

In fact, her knowledge of French was proving more useful during marriage than before it.

It was convenient – when one had an inquisitive daughter and a wonderful husband – to be able to communicate with the latter, without allowing the former to overhear. Translation proved an excellent way to disguise such telling phrases as _"Suppose we let her have another slice of cake?"_ or _"What do you think are our chances of an early night?"_

And then there was the fact that speaking in French only made Sir Anthony Strallan more irresistibly charming than ever. (That could be a liability as much a convenience, particularly come the evening.)

This particular evening – after a busy few days of estate dealings and publication deadlines – they had humoured their darling Annabelle with a Sunday-evening game of hide-and-seek. The little girl had thought them terribly incompetent, however, as they seemed quite incapable of grasping the fact that "you're not supposed to hide _together_ – it's Hide-and-Seek, not Sardines – you sillies!"  
Anthony had apologised quite solemnly – without removing his good hand from the curve of his wife's waist.

And now, as they sat close together in the library, sharing a calming cup of cocoa before bed, he glanced across the sofa and murmured pointedly, "_Je connais une très bonne cachette, à l'étage..._"_  
_Edith's 'warning glare' looked much more like a smirk; and a hint of colour rose in her cheeks.

Just as that moment, the nurse entered, and little Annabelle set aside her cocoa with a sigh.  
"Nanny," she complained, "they're speaking French again."  
Quite as though she assumed Nanny the Omnipotent would scold them soundly for it and send them off to bed without any more cocoa. But the older woman just smiled knowingly, glancing between her master and her mistress.  
"Are they, now? My my, aren't your parents clever? Now then, if I'm not mistaken, I think it's about your bedtime, little Mistress."  
Annabelle huffed another sigh, and Edith felt a warm empathy for her dear little daughter.

When the girl slid off the sofa and turned to bid her parents goodnight, Lady Strallan leaned forward to cup her little cheek.  
"_Je t'aime, mon petit cheri,_" Edith declared, seriously and sweetly.

The warmth of affection was clear if the language was not; and Annabelle looked placated in spite of herself. "…Does that mean something nice?" she hazarded, shy suddenly.  
"The nicest of nice things," Anthony interjected, with an inclusive, conspiratorial smile for his daughter. Smiling at this resolution, Nanny placed her large hands on the child's shoulders.

"Now," Edith nodded, "I think it's time for bed."  
"Say your goodnights, now."  
"Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight, Papa."  
"Goodnight, little one," said Anthony, leaning forward to press a kiss to his daughter's forehead. "We love you."

A moment after nurse-and-charge had shuffled off together, Edith turned to face her husband. He was regarding her with a questioning smile.

"You looked as though you wanted to say something, earlier…"  
The lady raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you hear what I said to our daughter?"  
"That you think it's time for bed?"

Anthony replied with perfect innocence – or, at least, a jolly good show of it – and Edith had little choice but to smirk. Her husband was a wickedly funny man, really – and his wit was all the more alluring for the fact that this side of it was reserved for her alone.

"Well, yes, that – now that you mention it," she grinned. "But the other thing, as well."  
Anthony cocked his head. "The other bit? Now, what was that…? It seems to have slipped my mind."  
Edith's smile grew mysterious; determined not to let his teasing get the better of her. In a manner distinctly sultry, she leaned closer to whisper in his ear.  
"_Je t'aime, vous imbecile._"

Her candour was rewarded with that throaty chuckle she so adored – and the "_Ah, merci,_" Anthony managed in response came out rather less coolly than he had intended.

And, smiling across the little space between her husband and herself, Edith Strallan decided that – while French had its uses – sometimes even a second language proved an inadequate method of expression.

She settled instead on a method tried and true – one which left absolutely nothing for translation.


	6. Sweet Disorder

_**SWEET DISORDER**_

Edith Strallan was driving him to distraction.

And, for once, he was absolutely sure she didn't know it.

They had been busy all day; cousin Sybbie was visiting, much to their little Annabelle's delight. There had been cakes at tea time, and afterwards the girls had begged for a game of blind-man's bluff on the lawn. Edith had obliged quite happily, seeking out a blindfold – and had even roped him in for a round or two. But even after the gentleman had excused himself, his ladies had carried on with high enthusiasm and a great deal of boisterous laughter. The picture the three of them made warmed him through.

And now, just as clouds threatened and light raindrops began to patter on the windowpanes, they had settled down in the library for some quiet time before dinner.

The girls were sprawled out, propped up on cushions - striving to fill Sybbie's new sketchbook with their best pencil-drawings - while Anthony answered a letter from his sister, and Edith was perched on the couch above the children, a novel on her lap. Anthony tried his best to focus on his letter – he really did. But apparently it didn't take much to steal his attention away.

Edith's dress was not _quite_ done up.

At her collarbone, where the dress should have fastened, the very top button had come undone…no doubt during the exertion of blind-man's-bluff…and now the fabric parted, affording the slightest glimpse of pale skin.

And, in spite of himself, Anthony found that his fingers itched to touch her – to trace that inviting path down to the next button, and see if that one didn't just come undone as well…

Which was not, he told himself, a sensible train of thought to indulge in while there were children in the room - _or_ while he was trying to write a coherent letter, come to that.

_Get a hold of yourself, man. You're not a newlywed, by any stretch._

But, curled on the couch that way…her hair slightly mussed from the children's embraces…and with no idea what an enchanting picture she made…there could be no denying that his wife was alluring in the extreme.

The ridiculous thing was that Edith frequently wore outfits more revealing than the dress she wore today – in fact, she'd quite likely change in to one for dinner that same night, an evening dress with a lower neckline – so why should one missing button capture his attention? He was already _intimately_ familiar with that gorgeous décolletage, that creamy skin…so why was he staring?

Anthony smirked wryly, suddenly gaining a new appreciation for a poem he had read once, back at Cambridge. He'd always liked it, had thought it rang true – and now he was quite sure.

What was it called? That one by Herrick…

_A sweet disorder in the dress  
Kindles in clothes a wantonness… _

Something about a lace or a ribbon, wasn't there? And it finished with…

_A careless shoe-string, in whose tie  
I see a wild civility:  
Do more bewitch me than when art  
Is too precise in every part._

Well, quite.

Not to say that he ever objected to a more 'precise' view of his wife's beauty, either…

Quite suddenly the clock chimed, and the family looked up, recognizing their call to change for dinner. Well, at least to tidy themselves up a little – the Strallans saw no reason to stand on high ceremony when they were at home.

And he wouldn't mind if Edith opted to stay in that day-dress, come to think of it. Until at last they made their way upstairs…

"Come on, girls," Edith was saying, uncurling from her position on the couch. "Off and brush your hair and wash up a little – let's see if we can't get you sparkling as bright as the crystal."  
With gratified little giggles, Annabelle and Sybbie got to their feet, and breezed off upstairs in search of a hairbrush.

Stretching out the muscles in her shoulders, Lady Strallan turned to her husband with a smile.

"Have you finished your letter?"  
He tried to look just as guiltless as possible. "Err, not quite."  
"Never mind – as long as you know you'll be occupied with bedtime-story duties this evening."  
"Oh, I think I'll manage – Sybbie finishes half of the sentences anyway."  
Edith laughed. "You're very patient – and it must be said, your reading voice is lovely. I'm almost jealous of the two of them."

Anthony grinned, his hand finding the small of his wife's back as they made their way from the library.  
"I'm sorry, darling – I'll read _you_ a bedtime story as well, if you wish. What would you like? The Twelve Dancing Princesses?"  
Edith smirked. "Perhaps something a little more grown-up?"  
"Hmm…what about John Donne, or Robert Herrick?"  
His wife raised her eyebrows – knowing exactly what kind of poetry he was suggesting. "That _is _grown-up."

Then she cast him a coy little smile.  
"I look forward to Donne's Elegy No. 20."  
Anthony shot her a warning look - the only effect of which was to provoke her teasing further.  
"Though," Edith smiled, "_you_ may have to license _my_ roving hands, when it comes down to it...if you don't mind the reversal."  
Her husband could only reply with a helpless sigh - and she grinned to know that she affected him.  
"Come along, my coy mistress - we ought to be getting ready for dinner."

As Edith preceded him up the staircase, Anthony smiled; wondering whether he ought to have alerted her to the fact that her top button was undone.

But then, perhaps it was just as well that he hadn't...he'd rather make her blush _after_ the girls were asleep. (As it were...)

Anthony Strallan shook his head. He may be well and truly done for…but he was also a very lucky man.

* * *

**A/N:** _The poem that Anthony can't quite remember is 'Delight in Disorder' by Robert Herrick, and it is lovely._


	7. Close

**_A/N:_**_This scene was inspired by a prompt that was brought to my attention by a friend on Tumblr - and it is distinctly **M**-rated, so if that's not your scene, you may wish to avert your eyes. (I was very nearly too shy to post this myself - but then I had some kind encouragement and some getting-the-hell-on-with-it).  
All the same, I hope you feel I've handled it tastefully. I firmly believe that intimate scenes can give important emotional insights into character (besides being, you know, fun)._

_Also - please note that we've slipped out of chronological order here, as predicted - this scene occurs fairly early on in Edith & Anthony's marriage._

* * *

_**CLOSE**_

Anthony had been away for far too long. Only for the best part of a week, admittedly – but the precise number of days was quite beside the point.  
Edith _missed him_.

Her husband was combining business with pleasure in a trip to London; seeing to estate business, and catching up with old friends. Edith would have joined him - were it not for the fact that Lady Grantham's birthday fell during the scheduled trip, and she and Mary had planned a surprise for their mother. Besides, she really ought to take advantage of that quiet time at Locksley, and get something written, if she were ever going to send in a manuscript. So it was really for the best that she stay behind.

Or, it _would_ have been – had she been at all in the frame of mind for concentration or productivity. But apparently, she wasn't.

Apparently, the last several months had got her very much used to having Anthony Strallan close - being able to see him across the breakfast table, to pose some question during tea time, to relay a joke at dinner – and being without him rather took the gloss off…everything.

_Ridiculous lovesick woman_, Edith chided herself - climbing out of the bath she had taken mainly for something to do. _You are worse than a schoolgirl._

_And anyway_ – she smiled – _he'll be back tomorrow._

Yes, that thought made her smile quite immoderately, as she dried herself off and wrapped the towel around her middle. Her hair had curled (more than usual) in the steam, and she ran a hand through to separate the red-gold strands.

He must be missing her too, she was sure. Of course, he'd already made that quite clear, during their few brief conversations on the telephone. The darling… And, when he came hurrying back, she'd be home to welcome him.

Edith grinned to herself. She couldn't deny that she was particularly looking forward to tomorrow _evening_… She rather suspected (hoped) that he'd be…eager. Heaven knew _she_ was.

So much so that she couldn't help but sigh, leaning against the wall as her mind wandered – imagining how they would be, the following night.  
His kisses on her neck, his fingers trailing up her thighs… Soon, Edith's mind wasn't quite all that was wandering.

It was just a little prelude to what would follow - that was all. Yes, tomorrow it'd be like this…only better.

_It's always better with him… Everything is…  
__This, particularly…  
__Mmm, he's just so…good at it…_

And _Edith_, he would whisper… "Edith…"

It took her perhaps a second to realise that the voice had not been of her own fevered conjuring.

Her eyes shot open – and there, in the now-apparently-open bathroom doorway, stood her husband. Edith gasped aloud in shock, flushing scarlet, and hastily righted the towel that had slipped from its place, hanging open. But having assessed the scene before him for all of four quite-adequate seconds, Anthony could be in very little doubt of what he'd just witnessed. Edith waited, barely drawing breath.

Then, she was being pushed back against the wall - pressed between the tiles and a broad, tweed-coated torso. She was being kissed sweetly and impetuously - she could feel the knowing smile on his lips. And _then_, her hand – which had feigned a position of innocence against her thigh – was being moved purposefully aside.

Her gasp of purely-physical reaction broke their kiss.  
"Anthony!"  
Of course, she was in a poor position to pretend to be shocked – and she could barely have articulated it if she _was_. All of a sudden he was there, giving her _exactly_ what she needed – and it felt so good she could barely form a thought.

Edith panted, steadying herself against his tweed-rough shoulders. She dared to raise her eyes once more, and found those blue eyes watching her intently.  
So…honestly.

"Are you close?"

She gaped at Anthony - once again, he'd stunned her. They'd never _talked_ about it – not _during_. It just…happened. But she was completely at his mercy; he…well, he quite literally had her under his thumb. And God help her, but she needed him to continue.

So, taking the frankness in her stride, Edith managed to nod – and Anthony smiled, pressing a quick kiss to her steam-damp forehead. And picked up the tempo until she had to moan.

"Mmm, good girl."  
Just the tone of his voice nearly drove her over the edge.  
"Oh, God, Anthony…"

When she really _had_ to give herself up to it, he leant in even closer; providing support in case her legs should buckle beneath her. He held her till her body calmed – then pressed one more sweet kiss against her temple.

"Hello, darling," he smiled, lightly. "Did you miss me?"  
His tone was warm – he was barely even teasing. In fact, he sounded…pleased, more than anything.  
Edith hid her face in his neck – inhaled the scent she had missed – and whispered a very earnest "Very much…"

Anthony's fingers were stroking at her side - trying to coax her into pulling back to meet his eyes – but she resisted, cheeks burning as she clung to him tighter.  
"Anyway, wha-what are you doing here? I mean – that is – you're not due till tomorrow."

The chuckle rumbled deep in Anthony's chest.  
"Yes, I am early. I missed my wife, you see – and since my business was quickly dealt with, I skipped the second soiree with the Ainsleys and caught the last train home instead. I hope you don't mind."  
"_Mind…?!_"

Edith finally leaned back, to stare at him in incredulity – and, on meeting his eyes, was surprised to find that…well, that she wasn't embarrassed.  
Apparently, there was no need to be.

Apparently, they were _that_ close. The realisation was sort of like stepping out gingerly onto a branch and finding it completely, wonderfully stable.

A giddy smile crept up at the corners of her mouth. "I'm so glad you're back," she sighed, relaxing at last into his embrace.  
"As am I," smiled her husband, tugging her forward a little so that she wasn't pressed so much against the hard bathroom tiles.

He was just looking at her, so lovingly – as though his own arousal (which she could feel) was vastly less important than tucking a curl back in place behind her ear. It all made her want to simply bury herself in his chest.

But, her fingers running lightly across his shoulders, Edith realised suddenly that her husband must've come straight inside to find her, following a long journey home. He must be exhausted.

"I must tell Mrs. Midge you're back for dinner – or will Sampson have seen to that already? I'm sure she'll be able to whip up something lovely. Are you starved?"  
"I am on the hungry side," Anthony admitted, watching his suddenly-industrious wife as she bent to retrieve the long-forgotten towel.  
"Well then, darling," Edith smiled, rubbing his paralysed shoulder where she knew it sometimes ached, "just you relax, and let me sort it for you. In fact, why don't you take a bath? The water should still be warm…"

She ran the hot tap for a while, just to make quite sure, and stirred in a handful of bath-salts with one foot. The room was warmer and scented in a moment.  
"There," she said, turning back to Anthony with a satisfied smile.  
"Don't let it be said that I don't take good care of my husband."  
The gentleman chuckled. "Dearest, you can't imagine just how good it is to be home."  
"Oh, but I can," Edith answered, beginning to ease the jacket from his tired shoulders. "I really can – Anthony, my darling."


	8. Let Me

**_LET ME_**

As a boy, one was left in little doubt of the holy virtues – and, for an Anglican, there were more than just the seven.

Competence was high among them, right up there with honour and bravery; though seldom mentioned, simply because it was assumed. Every man (or every man of _worth_) would naturally conduct himself with confidence and capability. At all times.

Which, like every rule, was fine up to a point.

Anthony was an intelligent man – he knew the complexities of existence – he _knew_ that one had to keep an open mind, and take many such things with several grains of salt.

But, while his mind he _did_ keep open, his heart… His…what? Whatever part of him that clung to those warm days of his youth, clung to the days in which his father still knew everything… That part of Anthony could not help being ashamed at his own miserable failure.

The boy who'd once dreamed of saving nations was now a man, who could not bloody well tie his own shoelaces.

And, even when he gained the love of Edith – even when, in general, he was happier than he'd ever, _ever_ been – those feelings of inadequacy would not let him be. The ghosts of childhood still looked on him with disdain.

"Here, let me," she'd say – reaching to help him with something trivial, with the best and most loving of intentions – and the smile he'd give would only be a mask.

That was just how things were, for…months?

Until that evening.

* * *

They were just home from a soirée – it had been a jolly evening – and his valet already had him dressed for bed. Lady Strallan, however, had loitered talking to the staff – and was still undressing when he knocked on her door.

"Oh, come in darling – I'll just be a minute longer."

Anthony moved towards the bed, but stayed on his feet - watching his wife (who, in addition to her usual glow, seemed perhaps the merest trifle giddy from champagne) as she reached behind to unclip the pearls around her neck. For a second, the clasp eluded her.

"Here," said Anthony, smiling. "Let me."

If he hadn't already been moving towards her, he would have stopped still.  
In one little moment – while Edith smiled and let his fingers settle at the back of her neck – Anthony suddenly saw the last four months anew.

Every time he'd felt dependent, every time he'd cringed inside when she reached for him with those words…he'd been looking at it all wrong.  
It was a matter of inference.

He'd assumed that what she was saying was, 'here, let me _help you with something I know you cannot do yourself_'.

But now – as he greedily drank in the nearness of her – Anthony realised that it had never been so simple.

What she meant when she reached for him was 'let me _feel your arm beneath my hand'_  
'…_slip my fingers into your tie_'  
'…_feel you relax when I work the knots out of your muscles'._

And what _he_ meant was, 'let me _casually brush the soft skin of your neck - just that spot where I know I can make you shiver_'.

It didn't matter a jot whether she were actually _capable_ of undoing her necklace - or he of undoing his tie.  
It was an excuse. And it was so much more than that.

"Thank you, Anthony," his dear Edith smiled, taking the pearls that he'd unclasped for her with one hand.  
"Oh, you're welcome," he said, lightly – with a kiss to her neck that distracted her for a moment from returning her jewellery to its box.

She turned to face him then; searching his face with a smile that said she hadn't failed to notice the change in him, but that she could not quite pinpoint the reason. The man simply stared at her.

"Do you _know_ how very lovely you are, my sweet one?"  
She gave a modest laugh - but Anthony silenced her, with fingers to her lips.  
"Let me show you."


	9. Against the Tide

_**AGAINST THE TIDE**_

Anthony Strallan had never been a lucky man.

Oh, he was _blessed;_ he had been raised in a fine country house, by a loving family, surrounded by beautiful countryside. He enjoyed good health (until the war came) and he generally wanted for little. But he was not _lucky._

He did not have the way that some other men had, of being in exactly the right place at the right time. That way of letting the winds of chance fill out one's sails - of reaching for something and have it fall into one's hand.

No - in the push and pull of life, it seemed that the tide would ever be against him.

So, the first time he dared lean close to Edith Crawley - and _she leaned in to meet him_ - Anthony could barely trust the evidence of his senses.

Shouldn't she…be pulling away? Wasn't that just the way of things? Shouldn't there be tension? Resistance? Strain?  
That unknowable current always pulled things _apart_ for him; not…together…

It took some time - to re-learn a pattern of things that he had really thought unalterable. It took a sustained effort of belief.

And even years later, there'd be moments when it struck him. When she arched herself into the hand that he pressed forward; when her hips rose to meet his with an urgency just as fervent as his own…

How could _exactly_ what he wanted – needed – be so firmly pressed into his hands? How could he _ever _be so lucky?

There comes a time when a man simply has to stop questioning. And, at fifty-three, Anthony Strallan was more than ready.

After all, only a fool fights for long against the turning of the tides – and when it steers a man home, he only needs to let it.


	10. Familiarity

_**FAMILIARITY**_

Edith had been told that it would happen. She'd been warned that the honeymoon phase is just that – a phase. That things would cool, and settle. What she hadn't been told was that she really wouldn't mind – not in the slightest.

The way that Edith looked at it, the fact that she could kiss Anthony, now, without feeling it spark along every vein, was not a _loss_. It was in fact an affirmation; a graduation.

It was proof, and part-and-parcel of the sheer _number of times_ that she and Anthony had kissed: after all, the first time, she'd practically melted. Now she was pleasantly warmed.

In fact, Edith almost prided herself, now, on being something of a connoisseur. Enjoyed knowing that – _because_ they were so intimately familiar with each other – she could enjoy a close proximity to Anthony Strallan, without being unreasonably affected.

Except, of course, for those certain, surprising moments…when his guiding hand at the small of her back would begin to trail up her spine…when his lips would brush the sensitive spot at the back of her neck…when he'd do _any_ of those little things that he was quite indecently good at.  
That was the other side of familiarity, she supposed. (And it went both ways…)

No, Edith Strallan had very little to complain about – and familiarity with her husband was certainly not one of them. It was perhaps something of a liability that he seemed quite able to guess what she was thinking, very often…

_But I'll cope_, she thought, as he gave her a particular glance across Downton's dinner table.

_Oh yes, I think I'll cope._


End file.
